


The Teddy on the Pillow

by HumanError



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief Mention of Alcoholism, Child Death, Grieving John, Grieving Sherlock, Illness, M/M, Parent!lock, Parenthood, brief mention of drug abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumanError/pseuds/HumanError
Summary: John lays awake on the sofa, listening as Sherlock plays Rosie’s lullaby over and over and over again on the violin. He’s been playing for hours, insisting that he’s fine. Occasionally the violin will screech, and John knows that Sherlock’s thinking too much again, becoming distracted from the notes he is playing. That great brain of his, lost. Confused.He can’t sleep, knows that if he does manage to slip into a dream that it’ll soon morph into his daughters face, crying in pain. It’ll turn into Sherlock’s anguished cry as he holds his daughter one last time. It’ll turn into her skin, slowly becoming cooler in his palm as he clings on to her hand, hoping that all of this is a cruel game.





	The Teddy on the Pillow

Sherlock kneels on the bathroom floor beside Rosie who finds herself hunched over the toilet vomiting. He has one hand on the base of her back, supporting her body as she heaves again, and one hand wrapped loosely around her blonde curls, pulling them away from her face. John enters the doorway in just a baggy shirt and underwear with a glass of water in his hand, and sits down on the opposite side of Rosie. John rests his hand just above Sherlock’s and they sit there as Rosie finishes throwing up.

“Drink this, darling.” John says, handing her the glass of water as Rosie falls into a sitting position in between her parents. Her eyes are streaming and there are dregs of vomit on her chin, and it’s taking everything within her to not fall asleep. It’s 04:03am, and all three of them have been in the bathroom for almost an hour. Rosie finishes drinking and flops into Sherlock’s lap, utterly exhausted. Sherlock wipes her chin with the back of his hand. Before they know it, Rosie is asleep and it’s now just the two of them.

“I’ll text Lestrade in the morning.” Sherlock says, looking at his daughter. Her skin is sallow and clammy, and she looks frail within Sherlock’s arms. _She is frail,_ Sherlock thinks, watching as her chest rises up and down, up and down. “There’s no point in taking any cases at the moment.”

John only nods. They’d discussed it, of course, but neither thought they’d reach that stage so soon. “Her bed or our bed tonight?” John asks, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“Ours.” Sherlock states, no hesitation. John crouches, placing his arms around his daughter and lifting her in one swift movement from Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock stands too, holding the door open so John can take Rosie through to the bedroom. All the while, she remains fast asleep. They rearrange the pillows so that Rosie’s are in the centre, and place her under the duvet before John climbs in next to her. They both know that neither will be sleeping tonight. Sherlock hesitates in the doorway, debating whether to let John spend some time with Rosie just by himself or stay.

“Rest, Sherlock. Even if you don’t sleep. Just try and relax, even for a couple of hours.” He goes over to the bed.

***

Sherlock looks at the bed now, looks at the pillow in the middle, the little dent where their daughter had slept. Her teddy bear rests on the pillow, its head drooping slightly, the threads keeping it together beginning to fray. They both refuse to move it back into her room.

“Sherlock?” John stands in the doorway to their bedroom. His hair is sticking out in all directions and he has bags under his eyes. The beginnings of a beard are showing and he’s wearing a worn jumper. Sherlock cannot help but note how exhausted he is. Seventy six hours since it happened, perhaps only nine hours of sleep since. “Mycroft’s at the door.”

“Tell him to piss off.” Sherlock strides passed John, running his hand over his face. He too can feel the stubble that he hasn’t bothered to shave, and he knows that what’s happening now is leading him down a path of self-destruction yet again, but he cannot find it in himself to care.

“I did.” John says, following Sherlock as he heads to the door. “He won’t go though.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Sherlock mutters. John swallows. He knows that Sherlock’s not coping and having Mycroft with them will only make matters worse. They make it downstairs, where they see Mrs Hudson at the door with a tissue in her hand, talking to Mycroft.

“Please do ignore my brother, Mrs Hudson. No doubt he’s only here to interfere with our business.”

“My business also, Sherlock.” Mycroft is standing on the doorstep, umbrella propped up as the rain pelts the ground around him. “You know why I’m here.”

“Yes.” Sherlock clenches his jaw. _Not now._ John moves in behind him, placing a hand on Sherlock’s hip. It’s reassuring.

“Now is not a good time, Mycroft.” John stares at the elder Holmes, not once losing eye contact with him. “If you know what’s best for you, you will leave _right_ now without another word.”

Mycroft glares at John, a challenge. “I am not here to meddle. Having known you for over a decade now, Dr Watson, and my brother his whole life, may I say that it is quite safe to conclude that neither you nor him have very… _suitable…_ coping methods with grief and-“

Whatever Mycroft had to say next, he didn’t succeed in doing so. Sherlock is in the rain with a hand pressed against his brother’s throat. The umbrella is discarded on the ground beside them. “May I remind you, brother dear, that Rosie is _not_ your daughter. John and I will cope in any way that we see fit and if you so happen to step foot on Baker Street in the foreseeable future you will regret it.”

Sherlock’s grip doesn’t falter, and Mycroft struggles in his grasp. John doesn’t bother to interfere with the dispute. “Goodbye, brother.” Sherlock releases Mycroft, noting the red marks of his own fingerprints decorating the expanse of his neck that is exposed. Mycroft splutters slightly, raising his own hand to his throat and staring at his brother and John in disbelief, before the door is slammed and he is left, the rain soaking through to his skin.

***

“How’s she doing?” Lestrade asks, taking his coat off and placing it on the rack, before following John up the stairs. “I won’t stay long. I know you and Sherlock need some space.”

“Don’t worry, Greg. Stay as long as you like- I’m sure Rosie would love to see you.” They arrive in the kitchen and John grabs three mugs from the cabinet, flicking the kettle on. “As to the initial question: better than yesterday but still not good. Sherlock’s up with her now.”

Lestrade nods, unsure of what to say. It’s always the same questions. _How is she doing? How are you doing? Sherlock?_

“And Sherlock?” John finishes making the coffees, handing one to Lestrade and taking a sip of his own.

“Putting on a brave face.” John responds, setting the mug on the counter. He doesn’t feel like drinking. “Still keeping Rosie entertained, despite everything. She doesn’t want to leave his side. It’s always _‘where’s Daddy’_ whenever she wakes up. He’s brilliant with her. Really, really brilliant.” John taps his thumb on the counter, a sadness in his eyes as he speaks to the detective inspector, a sadness that speaks volumes. Lestrade has never seen a man more broken and it pains him to see his friend so helpless, knowing he can’t do anything to make the situation better.

“Don’t forget that you are too, John.” Lestrade reassures. “Rosie is a very lucky little girl, having you two as her parents.”

John’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes but Lestrade knows that he appreciates the comment.

“She should hopefully be awake by now.”

They go to the bedroom (Rosie had been in there since yesterday morning) to find Rosie fast asleep, clutching her teddy bear. Sherlock’s hand rests gently against the top of Rosie’s head and he’s kneeling on the floor, head propped at an awkward angle on the sheets, and he too is fast asleep.

“I can come back later if now isn’t convenient-“

“Greg, it’s fine.”

“John.” Lestrade stands still, not stepping any further into the room. John too stands where he is, careful not to make too much noise. “John,” Lestrade says again, this time a lot softer. “I’ll come back another time.” A sympathetic smile crosses his lips as John nods as a thank you. He’s loathe to send anyone away who wants to visit Rosie, especially if it’s Lestrade or Mrs Hudson or Molly, but on days like these he knows it’s for the best. Lestrade makes to leave, squeezing John’s shoulder ever so slightly as he leaves. Then, it’s just the three of them yet again.

***

Pieces of paper are strewn across the living room of Baker Street, case files, evidence. A cup of coffee is spilt, becoming dry and sticky. Sherlock is on his hands and knees, frantically rifting through the documents, not caring where they land. His hands are shaking as he picks up sheet after sheet of paper, eyes scanning the content before throwing it to the side.

“Where is it?” Sherlock shouts. He jumps up, beginning to search the shelves. Ornaments fall to the ground, a vase shatters. The flowers gifted to them by Molly lay strewn in the fireplace with shards of glass decorating the petals. Sherlock knows he’s panicking but _he can’t have misplaced it_.

“Where is it, where is it, where is it?” His voice spreads through the flat and suddenly John is in front of him, hands grabbing wrists, stopping Sherlock from dropping the skull to the ground. He takes Billy from Sherlock and places it back on the mantelpiece. “I’ve lost it John. I’ve lost it. I _thought-_ I never misplace important things John but it’s gone and I just _can’t_ remember where-“

“Sherlock, shh, Sherlock.” The detective focusses his attention on John.

“I can’t find Rosie’s drawing.” His voice breaks slightly and he feels all of his composure slipping before him. John is the only one he will let see him like this, the only one who could possibly know what he is experiencing. After a moment, John stands on the very tips of his toes and pulls Sherlock down slightly so that his head rests on his shoulder. His fingers rest on the back of Sherlock’s neck and they stand in an embrace, freeing the tears that they had both tried so hard to keep in.

“We put it in her room this morning.” John manages. His voice is quiet.

***

“Papa, Daddy says that Uncle Mycroft is a moron. Is that true?” Rosie continued playing with her pirate ship in the bath as John poured more bubbles into the water. This was most certainly one of her brighter days, a day where things seemed as if they could be normal again. She giggled as she dropped one of the pirates into the water.

“Is that what he said?” John asks, shaking his head slightly, but laughing nonetheless. _Of course Sherlock said that._

“Mmhmm. Daddy said that Uncle Mycroft had more chance of losing weight that running the government good.” Letting go of the pirates Rosie looks up, meeting John’s eyes. “Is that really true?”

“Your Daddy is going to get in lots of trouble if he keeps saying things like that to Uncle Mycroft.” John tutted, which only made Rosie giggle more. They sit there giggling for a couple of seconds more before John leans in, whispering, “But between me and you, Sherlock loves Uncle Mycroft really.” John presses a kiss to Rosie’s forehead, just as Sherlock enters the bathroom.

“John, the kitchen was on fire.”

“What the f-“ Sherlock glares. “What?” John stands abruptly, ready to go in to the kitchen.

“I was testing the flammability of different fruits. Don’t worry- there’s only a couple of burns on the counter. I managed to put the flames out.”

Rosie glances up from the bathtub, a confused frown on her face. “Don’t test the flammability of fruits, Rosie. Not yet anyway. Give it a couple of years and maybe we can sort something out in the laboratory where we won’t set any of our possessions on fire and-“

“Sherlock.” The detective winks at his daughter and all three begin to laugh.

“Daddy’s crazy, Papa.” Rosie says to John, and a grin plasters her face as she looks at her parents. John looks between his daughter and his husband, eyes settling on Sherlock for a fraction of a second longer. They share a look before John responds.

“Just slightly.”

***

John lays awake on the sofa, listening as Sherlock plays Rosie’s lullaby over and over and over again on the violin. He’s been playing for hours, insisting that he’s fine. Occasionally the violin will screech, and John knows that Sherlock’s thinking too much again, becoming distracted from the notes he is playing. That great brain of his, lost. Confused.

He can’t sleep, knows that if he does manage to slip into a dream that it’ll soon morph into his daughters face, crying in pain. It’ll turn into Sherlock’s anguished cry as he holds his daughter one last time. It’ll turn into her skin, slowly becoming cooler in his palm as he clings on to her hand, hoping that all of this is a cruel game.

But it isn’t, and the dreams are only a reflection of the horrendous reality that they are facing. A life without their baby, their daughter. John sits up, rubbing his hand over his face.

The violin screeches again. It’s 04:03am.

***

She insists that they don’t buy her a wig. It’ll only be itchy, she says, so she doesn’t get one. Besides, it’ll grow back eventually.

***

The violin stops. The light is beginning to break through the curtains.

***

 _Terminal._ The one word that they had both feared, suddenly becoming a reality. Sherlock barely has time to let the word sink in before he’s striding out of the doctor’s office, leaving John alone. Rosie’s asleep in her hospital bed- she has been all day. Sherlock’s with her in an instant.

John can’t quite comprehend what has been said to him, and he’s not quite sure whether he realises that Sherlock has left.

“My sincerest sympathies.” The doctor says to John. “We have a fantastic palliative care facility at the hospital.” He continues speaking, but John isn’t listening. All he hears is _terminal_ being repeated over and over again.

“Excuse me.” John says, already standing. He closes the door behind him and soon enough he’s with Sherlock, both watching as Rosie’s chest rises up and down, up and down.

***

 

There are pinprick marks on one arm. There are a few too many glass bottles in the bin. Both pretend not to notice.

***

“Rosie, darling, the doctors are going to try everything they can to make you feel comfortable, ok?” John strokes his thumb across Rosie’s head. Tubes are connected to her, pumping in the medicine. She is weak, exhausted. Movement is proving difficult and the pain is becoming unbearable.

She looks at her Papa, then at her Daddy. “I love you.” She says to them both.

***

Mycroft visits again. He was right.

***

Rosie wakes up screaming, the agony becoming unbearable. Most of the day had been spent sleeping. In fact, most of the past two days had been Rosie sleeping and being sick. Her Papa and Daddy are by her side in an instant, trying to soothe her, to calm her down. She burrows her head into the crook of John’s arm, cries and screams disrupting the silence of the night. She’s only six, doesn’t know how to cope with the pain. Her doctors had told Sherlock and John to start preparing. They could take her home (and she had been home for just over four days) but if they had any concerns to phone for an ambulance immediately.

Sherlock was on the phone, explaining the situation to the paramedics. “Sherlock,” John says, the fright in his voice evident. His voice quivers and Sherlock knows that he’s trying to be strong, for Rosie’s sake, but he’s seen too many people die and doesn’t know if he can handle seeing another person die, let alone his daughter. “She’s asking where you are.”

“Rosie, I’m here. I’m here.” Sherlock hands over the phone to John, who shuffles slightly so that Rosie can lay in Sherlock’s lap. Like with John, Rosie burrows her head into the crook of Sherlock’s arm, curling herself inwards. Sherlock is rocking her on his knees, having found that this is the best way to try and calm her down. She clings tightly to Sherlock, refusing to let go even when the paramedics come.

“We’re not going anywhere.” Sherlock reassures her.

***

“Sherlock, listen to me.” John cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, presses his forehead to his husband’s. Sherlock holds on to John’s wrists, closing his eyes. “We’ll get through this, ok?”

Sherlock swallows, wanting to scream. He knows John is right, he’s always right, but this is so much harder than he could have ever imagined.

“But we have to stop this.” John continues. Sherlock doesn’t have to ask what he’s talking about. Sherlock lifts his head, pressing his lips to John’s. It’s a reassurance, a comfort. They kiss, knowing that whatever tomorrow will bring will be defeated by the two of them together, not suffering by themselves.

They kiss until they are gasping for air, hold on to each other as if to never let go. _We’ll get through this._

***

She won’t wake up again, the doctors say. Sherlock and John hold their daughter together, kiss her one last time. They refuse to cry. Her breathing changes and they _know._

***

Weeks go by. They receive cards and condolences, hugs and tears. The teddy bear still sits on the middle pillow. It’s 04:03am and finally, _finally,_ the two of them can sleep, fingers intertwined in the darkness, knowing that whatever is to come, they’ll still have each other.


End file.
